_Saranac Lake_ [_December_ 1887].
MY DEAR COLVIN,—This goes to say that we are all fit, and the place is
very bleak and wintry, and up to now has shown no such charms of climate
as Davos, but is a place where men eat and where the cattarh, catarrh
(cattarrh, or cattarrhh) appears to be unknown. I walk in my verandy in
the snaw, sir, looking down over one of those dabbled wintry landscapes
that are (to be frank) so chilly to the human bosom, and up at a grey,
English—nay, _mehercle_, Scottish—heaven; and I think it pretty bleak;
and the wind swoops at me round the corner, like a lion, and fluffs the
snow in my face; and I could aspire to be elsewhere; but yet I do not
catch cold, and yet, when I come in, I eat. So that hitherto Saranac, if
not deliriously delectable, has not been a failure; nay, from the mere
point of view of the wicked body, it has proved a success. But I wish I
could still get to the woods; alas, _nous n’irons plus au bois_ is my
poor song; the paths are buried, the dingles drifted full, a little walk
is grown a long one; till spring comes, I fear the burthen will hold
good.
I get along with my papers for _Scribner_ not fast, nor so far specially
well; only this last, the fourth one (which makes a third part of my
whole task), I do believe is pulled off after a fashion. It is a mere
sermon: ‘Smith opens out’; {86} but it is true, and I find it touching
and beneficial, to me at least; and I think there is some fine writing in
it, some very apt and pregnant phrases. _Pulvis et Umbra_, I call it; I
might have called it a Darwinian Sermon, if I had wanted. Its
sentiments, although parsonic, will not offend even you, I believe. The
other three papers, I fear, bear many traces of effort, and the ungenuine
inspiration of an income at so much per essay, and the honest desire of
the incomer to give good measure for his money. Well, I did my damndest
anyway.
We have been reading H. James’s _Roderick Hudson_, which I eagerly press
you to get at once: it is a book of a high order—the last volume in
particular. I wish Meredith would read it. It took my breath away.
I am at the seventh book of the _Æneid_, and quite amazed at its merits
(also very often floored by its difficulties). The Circe passage at the
beginning, and the sublime business of Amata with the simile of the boy’s
top—O Lord, what a happy thought!—have specially delighted me.—I am, dear
sir, your respected friend,
JOHN GREGG GILLSON, J.P., M.R.I.A., etc.